


Life After Legend

by Nomanono



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Electricity, Erotic Electrostimulation, Fucked Up Societal Structures, Loss of Control, M/M, Orgasm Control, Ownership, POV First Person, microchipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 01:23:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20574146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomanono/pseuds/Nomanono
Summary: The ISU gives its top skaters access to the latest equipment, the best facilities, and whatever they need to keep their bodies and minds in top condition…including their very own junior to use as they desire.





	Life After Legend

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [Life Like Legend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14112312), but it isn't necessary to read that first. You'll get the gist from this, and if you enjoy this I'd highly recommend it for background.
> 
> And hey! First post-pregnancy-fic! Stoked that I managed anything XD
> 
> Thank you Sintina for the beta <3

I belong to Victor Nikiforov. 

The ISU gives all of its top skaters access to the latest equipment, the best facilities, and whatever they need to keep their bodies and minds in top condition…including their very own junior to use as they desire. Victor Nikiforov was five time world champion, the highest scoring senior in history, when I became junior world champion. He could have anyone he wanted, and I was the world’s most wanted. 

Of course he picked me. 

On assignment day I followed Victor to the medical wing, all the rumors of his past swirling in my skull, and stripped to nothing in front of the nurse. As my new owner, he chose where the electrodes were embedded in my body. Five gold medals gave him five more than the usual pair. Two went under the near-translucent skin of my wrists. Two at my ankles. Two on my inner thighs.

The last one they spread my legs wider for. The nurse wiped a cool alcohol pad under my balls and I remember going rigid, realizing with an even colder dread just where that final node would go. She pinched my perineum, pain flared. Freezing adhesive gel kept the blood from seeping out of the wound onto my underwear. 

I belong to Victor Nikiforov. 

I remember standing in front of him as the nurse connected the app on his phone to my electrodes. They had to test the sync, and one by one I felt the electrodes come alive. My arm twitched as my left wrist suddenly went tight. The nurse nodded approval when my fingers flexed into my palm. On the final electrode my knees buckled, but fuck if I was going to fall in front of Victor Nikiforov. I righted myself as the shock disappeared, on and off in one bright flash of pain.

That was months ago. Forever, and no time at all. Everything I thought I knew was wrong: that he was a monster, that he would wreck me, that I was doomed.

He wouldn’t even shock me at first. 

He had me. He’d claimed me. He’d gotten first pick of everyone and chosen _me_. Yet when I expected brutality he tore me apart with tender touches instead, taking my virginity to the tune of unimaginable pleasure. I stared at him sleeping that first night and wondered why he hadn’t done more with me. To me. I’d made my peace with the system. It was the biggest insult in the world for him to think I couldn’t handle it. Did he think I couldn’t handle it?

So I started it. I pushed him down in the bed the next night and coated his cock in ISU-issue lube. Glycerin-based. Burning. Despite the itching wounds in my inner thighs, the worse one between my legs, I put my ass over his cock and started to sit on it. I forced myself open without any other stretching, ignoring the pain of the glycerin and the sting in my eyes and all of it to show Victor Nikiforov that I could handle it; I could handle whatever he needed from me. 

I belonged to him, after all. 

“You don’t have to—“ his hand was on my hip, trying to stop me or steady me I didn’t know. _You don’t have to_, he said. 

But I did.

I don’t think he wanted to need me. Needing meant vulnerability. I understood that. I understood that better than anyone. But I was his and he could have me and letting me languish was insult. I let him kiss me afterwards. I drowned in his kisses afterwards. I drowned and he dragged me down to the depths of pleasure again, leaving me shivering in satisfaction on his sheets when he left.

I took his phone one evening, after dinner, after I’d seen him watching me do my sit ups and squats on the floor by the bed, eyes catching on the hard curves of my muscles.

“It’s supposed to feel better—,” I said as I opened the app. I looked at the interface that controlled my body, that gave him domain over my actions, my pain. I selected the pattern generator and picked the nodes between my thighs, against the soft tissue where the muscles of my glutes met my hamstrings. “—If you use them.”

Victor was staring. “For who.”

“Put your cock in me,” I told him. “I can see you’re hard. Fuck you if you think I can’t take it.” 

“I never said you couldn’t take it.”

I didn’t let him stretch me. He wanted to, he pulled out his personal stash of lubricant. But I was ahead of him, over him, _proving_ it to him. It still felt awkward and terrible, my asshole still burned at first and the lube only made it worse, but I didn’t care. I hugged his waist with my thighs and then rolled us so he was above me. He looked curious, concerned for me. He tried to kiss me but I knew if he kissed me I’d get lost in it. His lips met my cheek instead as I studied his phone, as I activated the pattern I’d chosen. A sine wave. Rolling intensity from hardly anything to… well, it took me twenty seconds to figure out how that maximum felt. 

The worst thing about the electrodes is losing control. When electricity goes through your muscles they clamp down regardless of whatever signals your brain sends. As the sine curve escalated, so did the tightness in my ass. I felt my muscles constricting, bunching up, squeezing Victor’s cock for all it was worth. 

I remember his moan sounded broken, like it had escaped unbidden. He didn’t want to need me, to enjoy it when I wasn’t enjoying it, but I heard him crack. I heard it even despite my own shocked, strained cry. It hurt me, but getting that sound out of him? I’d done that. I’d made him feel that way. 

It was addictive.

I increased the pattern’s frequency from twenty seconds to ten, ten to five, to three, until every second and a half my ass was crushing his cock, all of its own accord, dancing on the strings of the embedded nodes. 

The best thing about the electrodes is losing control. I collapsed in pain, dangling off Victor’s cock, and my body just kept on milking him, no better than a vibrator. I was an automatic sex toy made of flesh and blood. 

I must have passed out. I woke up in a pool of my own cum with Victor pulling out. The phone was gone. My body was under my own control again. I touched my inner thighs, where the shocks had swelled like oceans unleashed. 

_God_. 

“You liked it,” Victor said. He’d seen the cum: evidence voluntary or involuntary that my body had found pleasure amongst the blinding pain. 

“I guess,” I panted. I stared at him, trying to see if he’d liked it too, but he just kissed me and went to sleep.

I belong to him now and the whole world knows it. The assignment was broadcast to an international audience, and I remember the first time an interviewer asked him how I was, and he said, I remember: “the best in his class.” 

When they asked me how Victor was, what could I say? 

“He hurts well,” I said, and gave them no more than that. Who was I to ruin the rumors? And wasn’t it true, even if I liked it?

Victor didn’t want to need me, but it was happening anyway. I’d catch him in the mornings, when he woke up, and grab his wrist before he could leave. “Take me,” I’d insist. “You’ll do better. You’re too tense.” For all his nonchalance before the cameras, Victor was uptight as fuck behind closed doors. Or maybe still a little bit broken. Fine then, we could help each other.

I made him fuck me every morning, not letting go of his wrist until he’d come in me. He didn’t use his phone in the morning, just railed on me like normal humans fucking, but one evening I caught him looking at his phone, at me, at his phone. 

“Just do it,” I told him. “I belong to you.” And when that didn’t work, when I saw that hesitation: “I dare you.” 

He stared at me across the table, our dinners long finished though we’d both been too consumed by our phones to leave. I sat there wondering which one he’d pick first, where the tension would come from, what the pain would feel like. My cock was stirring.

I almost didn’t notice it at first, on my wrist. Then my fingers twitched, and he watched as his thumb moved up the screen, increasing the intensity until my fingernails were gouging the meat of my palm from clenching so tightly. 

“Chicken,” I hissed.

He activated my other wrist, amped it up, and I was shaking as I stared at him with teeth ground together. 

“Tch—“ 

He dialed them both back down while I caught my breath. 

“Are you hard yet?” I needled.

“Bend over.” 

I’ve gotten used to it, now, the way he can force open my ass, and my sphincter’s loosened and adapted to being plugged wide, to being used. It still hurt back then, when I stood up and bent over the table, ballet body swaying down and a relevé bringing my ass up to his height. 

He put the phone down in front of my face as his cock speared me. I struggled on it and took it and as he started to fuck me, but my attention was on the app. I could see every electrode. I could see my heart rate (elevated), my location, the recommended cooldown for my wrists. 

I activated the pattern for my inner thighs and listened as my electrified body drove Victor into a fury.

I belong to him. It took him weeks to realize that even if he didn’t want to need me, he could still want me. I was at the edge of the rink, drinking from my water bottle, when a warm tingle bloomed between my legs. I clenched on instinct, my cock bounced in surprise, and my eyes shot to Victor Nikiforov, his thumb casually on his phone, looking back at me from across the ice. 

He’d never activated that one before, that one they’d pierced through my perineum, to the root of my cock, behind my balls. I felt dampness as the stimulation forced precum out of my cockhead and I skated over to him, giving up on proper poise in the face of such intimate electricity.

“About time,” I growled to him. None of the other seniors kept their juniors to their bedrooms. Victor didn’t respond, just handed me a pair of skate guards so that I could walk off the ice and around the rink and into one of the curtained stalls set aside for this kind of thing. I’d never been in one before, but I remember him touching me even before the jangle of curtain rings had settled. He pulled down my leggings and I bent over for him, arms braced against the wall as he pulled out his cock. His spit dribbled cold down my crack, a paltry excuse for lube but the dispenser in the stall was empty and fuck him if he thought I couldn’t handle it.

It hurt. But the electricity hurts too and now my whole body’s rewired to confuse the pain of it with pleasure. 

I craved it.

I came writhing on his cock, all while that electrode deep between my legs buzzed through my cock and prostate. My cum joined a few other dried up smears on the stall floor, and when Victor was done he pulled out, wiped himself clean, and left me there shaking.

I belong to Victor. 

I come when he calls now. It’s always the same, that buzzing between my legs, only now my cock will stiffen and start leaking and my ass will tremble in anticipation as I skate over to him and he walks me to the lockers, a hand on my neck. His fingertips like to play in my hair, his thumb will rub the soft sensitive dip just below my ear. Even if I’ve gotten him to push me, he still doesn’t give up the pleasure.

Everyone knows, when we pass them. Everyone knows that I belong to Victor, and that he’s taking me to the lockers to use my body for his satisfaction. They look at me and know I’m about to get fucked, I’m about to have world champion cock embedded in my bowels and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Fuck them, if they think I can’t handle it.

It’s every day now, sometimes twice, while we’re out. Always in the mornings, sometimes at night. No matter how much electricity, he always starts and ends by kissing me. 

Maybe I’m starting to like that, too. 

Maybe the ISU knows what it’s doing. The more time we’re together, the better we do. Victor’s practicing his quad axel. He’s landed it in harness. I’ve got his quad flip easily beneath my belt. He parades me around with pride, now. He sees himself reflected in my successes, and in me: in what I can achieve on the ice and how I look off of it. I’ll catch him talking about me, dressing me for our galas and showing me off as if I’m a prized pet. He’ll stroke my hair while he talks to sponsors about my flip, or my lutz, or _doesn’t he look like one of the ladies with his catch spiral position?_

I hated it, and I like it. It makes my cock drip, standing next to him while he idly caresses the back of my neck, talking about me like I’m not there. Like he’s checked his phone and can see my heart rate and knows it gets me off. Fuck him. It makes my cheeks burn when we’re in front of our peers, or when he’s standing before the coaches who know exactly what he does to me. But what does it really matter? He’s coaching me more than any of them. We spend our days together, our nights. I’m bound to his bed after curfew. He has all the time in the world to teach me. 

I remember the first time he activated one of the patterns, after I’d landed his quad flip. He took me to his bed and took out his phone and I laid there and felt the shocks turn my body into his heaven. Then he made his own patterns. He crafted one for my program, synced to my music. He says it’s to keep me focused, but I think he wants me thinking of him. How can I do anything else when electric tendrils are whispering up my inner thighs? Even on the ice, he’s everywhere. He has a routine before I go on. He fucks me, leaves his cum in me, and then tightens the belt beneath my costume to ensure nothing escapes when I leap into the air with an angular velocity of 45 kgm2s. 

Fuck him. I need him.

I’m always leaking now. I keep pads in my locker to catch the grime that drips out of my ass. Sometimes it’s fast but sometimes he leaves it deep, and I get a chilly wet reminder hours later, just in time for him to electrify me again and pull me to his side to replace it.

I belong to him. 

Now, after our dinners, he finally enjoys playing hard with me. Sometimes it’s a buzzing in my wrists, sometimes my thighs. Sometimes he watches me, staring down my reactions, and other times he looks at his phone and pretends he’s playing some mindless game instead of controlling the exact levels of electricity in my body. He’s made me fall out of my chair before. 

We didn’t make it to the bedroom, that night, but we normally do, and he finishes it off with kisses and tells me — … I won’t tell you what he tells me.

“You could do it,” I tell him when we’re prepping for the GPF—when he’s come in me and fastened my belt and is dragging the zipper of my costume up my back to seal it all inside. “Slam it high during my free skate and end me. So I don’t have a chance of beating you.”

Victor looks at me in the mirror. “I could,” he agrees, and then that slow smile curves his lips. “But you don’t have a chance anyway.” 

He’s right. He doesn’t do anything to me, and I still come in second to him, both of us wearing the color of the other’s hair as we stand on the podium. The way he’s looking at me, I know he wishes he had his phone on him. But he doesn’t need it to summon me anymore. 

After we step off the podium, he doesn’t even bother taking me to one of the stalls. 

A handicap rail runs along the edge of the open showers in the locker room. He puts my hands over it and then sets my wrist nodes to full power. My fingers go white clutching onto the rail; I can’t let go if I wanted to. I huff air and struggle as Victor fingers my zipper again, unwrapping me just the same as he’d packaged my body up earlier. 

JJ comes in to change, slowing to a halt as he sees our spectacle. He’d wanted me, wanted to be the one in control of me. Inside of me. But instead he gets to watch the silver brush of Victor’s pubes smash lube in the crease of my ass. 

“Give me your phone,” JJ implores Victor. It isn’t uncommon, letting someone else drive your junior while you’re on them, but Victor just barks a laugh and says ‘he’s mine’. 

I’ve never been more proud to belong to Victor Nikiforov. 

The rest of our competition trickles in, but no one makes it to the lockers. They circle Victor and I, the ones who defeated them, beat them, and watch as he beats his hips against my ass, drum slaps echoing off the tile floor. 

He wrecks me. He wrecks me with all the intensity he’d used to rule the ice. It’s his domain, just like me. He has the app open, patterns active and overlapping. I am a bird flown into electric wire; I am alive with lightning and the burning buzz of invisible fire. I am trapped beneath him and making a trap of myself around him. I am his, he is champion; silver and gold metals hyper-conductive and intertwined and reflecting the envy in so many hungry eyes. 

I feel myself about to pass out. I spit out a breath, and my cock spits out cum, and all I can think about is how

I _belong_ —


End file.
